In Other Words
by Memic
Summary: Set end of s3 - an alternative start to s4. Bo wakes up in a pocket universe, Tamsin wakes up in a fantasy, and Lauren teams up with a very unlikely ally to save the day! Female centric/alt season 4/work in progress. Ultimately Doccubus but not totally averse to Valkubus in the short term...
1. Chapter 1

Blonde. There was a pattern emerging, getting blonder. And Bo didn't think she had a type. Dyson was dirty blonde, Lauren delicate. She's brazen. Even drunk and breaking. Dishevelled and doused in days of dirt. Clumsily sinking, fully-clothed, into her bathtub.

'Why didn't you ask me?' Blue ice – the cool equivalent paradox to her own – bores into her face, and Bo knows instantly what she means.

'There was so much going on, I – '

'You're lying.' Her expression is unchanged.

'No, The Dawning, the Sqonk…Lauren's – '

'Stop!' She allows the bottle she'd swiped from Bo's kitchen to slip, shattering on the tile beside the bath. She's allowed her mask to slip also. Just for one excruciating moment.

Though she feels the need to continue, Bo can't speak. The blonde moves towards her again, resting bare forearms on her knees.

If the electricity were literal, they'd both be dead.

'Quite the quota you're racking up. Light, dark, Fae, human, male, female, animal.' She tips her head to howl at the cracked ceiling then for a split second an almost maniacal laugh escapes her lips before the solemn expression returns as though she'd never spoken at all. 'You're in the clear for the dead hottie though. The last one anyway; the doc's still missing.' Her eyes flare the blue of Bo's hunger now, distracting from her words. She raises one pale brow in coaxing challenge and Bo shifts beneath the weight of her upper body where it remains positioned on her knees.

'We're on a break…' she mutters weakly, suddenly concerned about the dissipating bubbles and the other woman's breath on her skin.

'You must have known it would end up like this.'

'Your bender ending in my bathtub? Nope.'

'She…' Cold fingertips trace her collarbone, eliciting an involuntary shudder. '…was never going to be enough for you…like gruel when you're craving red meat. You've been hungry for months…' She walks her fingers slowly up over Bo's shoulder and around to the nape of her neck where the loosely gathered hair sticks in damp strands to her skin.

'I love Lauren.' Her voice is breaking in the undeniable way she wishes she could break off this conversation, this contact.

'Maybe. Or maybe you just longed for love, for purity of feeling that transcends hunger, the need to feed. Something that deep down, you know we can't have.' The hand that had remained on Bo's knee begins to glide down her thigh, into the water. 'In the hierarchy of needs, we're stuck right…down…on the bottom.' Her fingers are wrapped around the curve of Bo's hip, wedged between flesh and porcelain, thumb reaching up to traverse bone.

Desire ripples through the wet in such a complicated exchange that Bo isn't sure which one of them is the origin. It's this sensation that scares and thrills her. She's so used to being the source; the control even when she's not in control.

Blonde hair, hot breath and soft, soft lips follow the path her fingers led behind Bo's ear and down into the delicate dip between neck and shoulder. Bo's knees part, her feet replanting to bookmark the body that now leans so precariously closely into her own. She doesn't even attempt to convince herself it's a matter of physics – that two objects cannot occupy the same space – because this is unequivocally chemical. Biological. Her mouth wraps itself around the silent shape of Lauren's name as her mind fleetingly offers up the association before teeth on skin tear it away.

There's a left hand on the base of her back, a right hand on the back of her neck, both tugging her forward.

'Ask me,' the blonde whispers.

_You think you've seen everything and then you see you._

'Tamsin what are you doing here?' Bo's voice sounds strange, almost as though one or both of them has slinked beneath the water. 'Tamsin!' she snaps, grasping her arms and…something isn't right.

Their positions have been reversed; Tamsin's on her back and Bo is leaning into her. The warmth of the water has gone and she's suddenly sobered up enough to have a hangover. Her eyes had been open the whole time but now they see, and the pain radiates from head to toe, throbbing at every joint and pulse point. The truck. Her home. The smoke.

She bolts upright, wincing at the sharp spike along her right cheek but perversely enjoying the giddy dizziness that follows. She raises a hand to her face, gingerly exploring the stickiness with her fingers.

'How bad?'

'I gave you enough to close it, the bleeding's stopped.' The mixture of emotions on Bo's face are as open and genuine as ever, and for a moment Tamsin gets lost in reading them all.

She's scared, worried, relieved. Confused, alert and edging towards enraged. Tamsin wonders if she's maintained some sort of residual link from whatever that little fantasy bathroom scene was, because she's still experiencing Bo-by-proxy. She's had so much to deal with in her – thus far – short life; in Fae years, Bo's practically still a child, an innocent. She's bordering on had enough and Tamsin can't blame her. In all her cycles, she's truly never encountered anything like Bo. She can't – won't – be a part of her undoing.

'Are you hurt?' There's not a blemish in sight but they can't afford to leave any injuries unaddressed. 'You shouldn't have given me your chi if you need to heal…the crash must have – '

'What crash? Tamsin how did you get here? Where is here?' She helps the blonde to her feet, steadying her as she brushes away the excess dirt not yet clinging to sweat, blood or other bodily fluids.

Tamsin knows all too well where they are but she takes a moment to scan their surroundings, using the time to figure out how much – and just plain how – to explain. The sun is scorching, the sand glittering gold under its rays eliciting imaginings of Oz, but there will be no munchkins to sing them off on their route to the wizard. In fact the wizard is the last fucker they want to see in this place and they'd better get moving before his warped, less friendly version of the Lollypop Guild really does show.

'Tamsin! Will you stop with the space out! We need to get back to The Dal before World War Fae starts over this triphead-Taft stuff. Kenzi's – '

'Dyson!' Tamsin's head whips around, scanning the area where she'd come to, but before she can move further afield, Bo loses patience and grips her wrist.

'No! I don't think Kenzi's Dyson. What's going on with you?' The frowning makes her so cute in concern and absorbs Tamsin completely, rendering her momentarily useless, open. She smiles at Bo, reaches up to trace the lines that furrow her brow. Bo's lips twitch in frustration then falter.

'Did you drop acid?'

A sound like scraping metal and a puppy yelping comes from somewhere unseen and Bo's cheek turns in Tamsin's hand, warming her palm as she seeks out the source of the noise. She squints against the assault of the ethereal glint coming from everything the sun touches. The sense of unreality crawls under her skin, clawing upwards towards her brain for recognition. She turns her head back to re-establish eye contact with her only link to anything real and asks, almost hopefully, 'Did you spike me?'

Tamsin feels her protective cocoon begin to return and though it still feels wrong – draining almost – she slowly drops her hand from its resting place, cupping Bo's face.

'I wish, Sweetcheeks.' The smirk isn't quite back to form but Bo seems to relax a little at the attempt.

'You know where we are, don't you?' It's not an accusation. It should be, but Bo's looking at her with nothing but optimistic concern.

She trusts Tamsin. How can she possibly shatter that now, after everything?

'I – '

The metallic scraping is louder this time, and the puppy is older, bigger and majorly pissed off. They turn simultaneously in the now obvious direction, poised to bolt both towards and away from it. One more strained growl is enough for Tamsin to make the connection and she takes off sprinting, the mask that was mending contorted in pure, unadulterated fear.

She's a good forty feet away before she realises that Bo isn't directly aside or behind her. It's ridiculous – really, if she had time right now she'd ridicule herself – but she misses her. Physically, mentally, emotionally, she can feel that she's no longer close and the yearning she's been trying – and failing – to ignore for almost a year now, threatens to tug her back. There's an almost tangible tearing where logic and longing pull at her insides. She can't turn back, she has to keep going, but she knows she needs Bo with her.

'It's Dyson! Move your Succubutt, now Dennis!'

When she glances back there's no one there.


	2. Chapter 2

'She's in love.'

'Excuse me?'

'I can smell it.' The dark haired woman slinks into the booth opposite her and folds her hands on the table. 'She's all over you. You've tried to expel her; to shower and scrub her away, inside and out, but you may as well be in her thrall.'

'I don't know what you're…' She trails off, a spark of recognition causing her to falter.

She knows this woman, has seen her before, albeit in an entirely less together format.

'Aoife?'

'Hello Doc.'

She used to be better at this. She'd spent years living and learning the rules of running, but less than forty-eight hours on the move and she's already been found. She sighs in tired resignation. Escaping had always been a pipedream.

'How did you find me? And why? I didn't do what Taft wanted, I – '

'I wasn't looking for you. I'm looking for Bo and the only trace I could find led me here. You're the strongest link to my daughter.'

'I don't know where she is.' Lauren looks down into the muddy puddle of cold coffee remaining in her cup, a sudden sense of heart-splitting, sob-inducing sacrifice threatening to overwhelm her.

She's done the right thing. For both of them. They were giving up on too much to have each other. She tries to look out into the lot, wishing her bus was due to leave earlier, now even, but it's dark outside and all she can see is her reflection in the glass. She's exhausted, done.

'Oh honey.' Aoife reaches across the gap between them, enclosing both of Lauren's hands in her own, and for a second Lauren thinks she's about to pulse her but she just rubs her thumbs softly against her skin. 'You really have been broken haven't you? It doesn't matter what you think you know or don't know; it doesn't matter how lost you try to get. I can feel it, smell it, taste it coming from every part of you. Despite all efforts and intentions, my little girl loves you, she's in you. And that means she will find you.'

The bus leaves without her, pulls out as she winds down the passenger window on Aoife's ridiculous – and entirely fitting - red muscle car, dragging the cool night air into her lungs, stifling the last remnants of panic before they reignite to engulf her. The persuasive words linger, gently coaxing her forwards as the majority portion of her instincts hold back, willing her the other way. This isn't a good idea. It's definitely not a smart one, but then – as her driver pointed out – that's probably what makes it the best. The hunted turned hunter is hardest to hunt.

She fiddles with the wing-mirror until she can see Aoife's exquisitely made-up reflection concentrating on the road they're eating up at what Lauren estimates to be at least forty over the limit. She can't bring herself to look at the dash for confirmation, can't really bring herself to turn her head in that general direction at all. As long as she's looking out there's an accessible level of deniability. The image in the mirror is not directly related to her yet.

'So how'd you do it?' The words appear as shapes on Aoife's reflected lips before reaching Lauren's ears, and the light-sound delay plays out like an echo in her senses.

'You want the science?' Her fingertips continue to dance across the mirror's plastic casing, tap-tapping out a rhythm that can't be heard above the engine but comforts her a little none the less.

'Shouldn't you be a bit more enthusiastic about that stuff? You're a one-off, Doc. An enigma, a – '

'Gullible, naïve girl who, even after all the hurt and destruction and death, hasn't learnt her lesson?'

Aoife's eyes flicker from the road for the first time, glancing first at the back of Lauren's head and then momentarily meeting her gaze in the mirror. Lauren is startled by the unexpected surge in emotion they emit; her fingers still, calves tighten around the duffel-bag between her legs as though its very presence offers alternatives to the choices she's made. When Aoife refocuses on the road – and really, she was only watching her for fractions of a second – Lauren feels somehow chastised, like she'd been given some hugely precious and rare gift and squandered it without realising, without appreciation. Suddenly – though she doesn't want to - she needs to show that she does know something of what she's done.

'Fae DNA on a basic molecular level is not all that different from human. It's largely made up of the same compounds and provides similar vital coding and storage. It's really just a matter of altered functional base pairings so the realms of human and Fae medicinal science are not as exclusive as you'd first think.' She takes a moment to process what she's just said, shaking her head with a quiet, disbelieving laugh. 'It's incredible isn't it? How something that is, in relative terms, so insignificant in size that it can at first appear identical, a perfect match, can actually produce such catastrophically different ends.'

'This is not yet a catastrophe, and it doesn't need to be. Nor is it entirely scientific.' Aoife's lips come back together in a thin smile, her eyes mellowing, dipping into some distant memory. 'There must be more, something else that made it possible.'

Lauren's mind is flooded with the things that led her here – from childhood to med school to bombs to… Chaos. So many seemingly unrelated strands converging on the same point. She understands the principles of chaos theory, of course she does, particularly the mathematical and physical applications; she'd read Lorenz extensively in high school, albeit primarily because she had a massive crush on her physics teacher. Sensitive dependence on a statistical or molecular level was easy, even if it didn't always follow rules as specifically or predictably as other factions in its field. There was still some version of law, of measurability to it. But the philosophy? The so-called butterfly effect of decisions and actions on time and space, the effects on life – lives plural even – had always been too vast, too disordered and free-flowing for her to wrap her head around. Until now.

'Timing, I suppose. This person, this place, this time.' She sighs lightly, raising her hand to gently pinch her lower lip as she mulls over her own personal corner of chaos.

'Don't you mean these people? There has to be some degree of reciprocation, of collaboration. I mean, you can't lay the foundations, build and live there without compliance, right? Without – '

'Are you saying I wanted this? That to some extent I caused – '

'Of course you did. You were instrumental, a necessity. Don't you get it yet? It had to be you.'

Lauren shakes her head before looking back out into the night, allowing the air rushing in from the open window to relieve her heated cheeks.

'No. I can't believe that. I was stupid and weak, and petulant maybe, and I let myself get sucked into something that goes against everything that I believe in. But I was not inevitable. Someone else - '

'Sweetie, calm down. It's a good thing, a way to move forward, to progress. And the wolf has always been expendable.' Aoife winks at her knowingly and Lauren recoils. 'What's with the mock shock? It doesn't take a genius to figure out you see him as a threat. And ironically, you being a genius doesn't allow you to see the reality that he's not. He has no worth in all this. In the grand scheme of things, he's – '

'He's a person!'

Lauren can't take anymore of Aoife's borderline sociopathic justifications. She never should have got in this car – yet again, she's allowed herself to be ego-bated and hoodwinked into a situation when she should have just plain known better. She doesn't know what Aoife's motives are, she doubts Aoife even truly knows; she's not notorious for being consistently lucid. This could be a trap. This probably is a trap! Jesus, Lauren, a road-trip back to who knows what with one of the more potent, powerful and - possibly most importantly – unbalanced, dark Fae in history? Sweet move, bravo.

She feels between her knees for the strap of her bag, contemplating chucking it and then herself out of the car window. Physiologically she's ready to jump; her heart pounds angrily just left of centre scattering blood to heated limbs until she starts to think maybe spontaneous human combustion isn't a biological impossibility after all. Something is keeping her in the seat though, something beyond the knowledge that she wouldn't survive the leap at this velocity and her intrinsic will to survive. Something that feels remarkably – and so contextually inappropriate it's untrue - like curiosity.

'You're uncharacteristically calm, Aoife…considering everything that's happened in the last few days.'

'Sweetie, try the last few centuries. But that's how I know your predicament so intimately, and how I know that if you can just understand it yourself, you'll find your way. We all will.'

'But I do understand it, that's the problem. I've opened a door I can't close.' Her fingers resume their strumming, this time around the passenger door lock. 'Not without a lobotomy, anyway.'

Aoife visibly flinches, her eyes squeezing tightly shut then flaring open to stare straight ahead. Lauren turns from the mirror once more but doesn't reach out for Aoife's tensed arm as her nature dictates.

'What is it? What's wrong?'

For a few long moments, Aoife doesn't reply. She remains coiled in her beautifully dangerous cocoon, concentrating intensely, though Lauren isn't convinced it's on the road. A rough exhale of breath is first to break through the weighted quiet and then it instantaneously dissipates. Aoife's mouth lifts in a lopsided smile as she faces Lauren again and it's obvious that the momentary shift into that version of herself is over.

'The pull of the past, honey. You can't let it get ya.'

'It's the future I'm concerned with right now.'

'So things didn't go exactly as planned this time around, you just pull up your big-girl panties and try again.'

'You can't be serious?' Lauren's eyes bore holes into her finely chiselled cheekbones, incredulous. 'No. No way. Is that why you convinced me to come back?'

Aoife glances back and forth from the road to Lauren's face in rapid succession, a look of mild confusion clouding her features.

'Well…yeah. I thought we had a common aim. She needs you to do this, Lauren.'

'Who does?'

'Bo.'

'Bo?' Uttering her name is like a gunshot triggering a tidal wave of emotion she has not hope of standing against.

She can't deny that she'd thought about it. Back at Taft's compound, maybe even before. Changing herself would change so much for them but… 'What are you talking about?'

'Bo needs you to love her, to let her continue loving you. And we, as Fae, as humans - if we've any hope of stopping what's already started – we need to understand how.'

Lauren spends a few seconds suspended in a near catatonic state before doubling over in delirious laughter and equally out of place tears. Her hands push roughly into her hair, dragging it back off her face as her forehead comes to rest on her knees.

Aoife abruptly pulls the car onto a grassy verge, braking so harshly that Lauren's head and enlaced fingers bash into the glove compartment but still the unchecked emotional display continues.

'C'mon Doc, I'm supposed to be the loony tune, remember?'

Aoife's usual confidence is missing, replaced by a genuine, almost maternal disquiet that causes Lauren to picture Bo's face and lulls her some. This situation, this unreality that she finds herself in, has an anchor again. The Bo of three years ago – that lost little girl looking for her mother – brings it all back. Lauren turns her head in her hands but keeps the whole heavy load resting in her own lap.

'You want me to tell you the science of love?' She sniffs loudly, curling one hand round to wipe at her face.

'Succubi love is a paradox, it shouldn't exist. And yet, Bo loving you could be the only thing that saves us all. I need to know how you did it, how you made her fall in love with you, how she overpowered her succubus.'

'That's what you meant? What you've been talking about this whole time?' Lauren finally returns to a sitting position, the puzzle pieces slipping into place in her brain and making some semblance of sense again. 'You want me to teach you about love?'


	3. Chapter 3

Silken, smooth, sliding from wrists and ankles like ice down a melting cap, cooling bare skin. She's soothed. She's sinking into soft, supple support, and she succumbs. Sold! To whatever is holding her.

Bound. How many times? Yet this was never what she'd had in mind, for good or bad, pleasure or protection. She'd have done either, had it really been asked. That has to mean something.

_It's okay Ysi, I'm here._

My name is…

A glance becomes a whisper becomes a thrum, travelling up from her toes. So slow but entirely without hesitation. It echoes in both sides of her, resonating glorious warmth and sublime cold and everything and nothing between. It is pure, unadulterated satisfaction. Exquisite contentment. A timeless tingle of anticipation. The need for nothing and…

Is it her? The ghost of her mouth on inner knee? Breath on skin? She used to make her hum inside. Draw her to the point of implosion then skate the membrane of eruption. She'd contained her. And then released her. Held on for every second of the ride. And in her inability to comprehend, to openly, wholly accept what was offered, she'd lost everything.

Then again, feelings were never her forte. Sensation yes, the physical and perhaps the consequential emotions so long as they remain attached, but the separate? The stand alone, the convoluted, the inextricable and complex, causal and effect, mile a minute feelings? She could probably chi suck a whole town without touch but these were out of reach to her.

So now it can't be her. The balance of consumption is tipping beyond the delicate precipice of immaculate entirety. She knew the difference between brim and bursting; she wouldn't risk losing her to an overflow. She wouldn't want that. She'd rather not have her at all.

Thrall. Had any of it even been real? Or did she do this? Did she create this fucked up, farcical world and force them all into it? She laughs. Inside. Outwardly would be inappropriate.

Were there even feelings to feel? To be aware of? In touch with? She had felt. She had gone beyond the primal, beyond feeding, beyond one need to another entirely. She'd been full and fed. She'd slept soundly, slept only, in her bed. She'd loved. In love. Can you be in it alone?

It's time to wake up. Stop this.

The twinned tips don't falter on their trail. The takeover continues, usurping her will along with all thoughts of anything beyond. There is no need to fight because there is nothing to fight, no one to fight for anymore. All has been reduced to this space, this moment, this frozen, looping installation. She is inevitable.

She spills. A drop into oblivion with the mesh cupping so lightly it's dust, and yet she's completely secure. Her chest rises into the fall, chasing the enveloping hold as power surges unchecked through flesh and nerve, blood and bone. Two by two along her thighs. Two by two across her sides. They cast shadows around her collar, shimmer on shoulders, suckling shade into her neck. Marking, carving, claiming a way through. A murmur in her mouth, flicker past her ears, and her eyes are torn wide open, bleeding black into brown into blue.

_Don't fight this, Ysabeau._

Her arms are not yet her own as they shoot out in perfect symmetry across the sheets. The mirrored androgynes are repelled fluid, reshaped to evade her encroaching touch, curved and lingering around her hands. She rises up and the deformities sit with her, hanging weightlessly, waiting. She can feel their heady thrum reversing the mastered path they'd taken, clumsily releasing her piece by piece into her own turmoil. She needs them back and she wants them gone and so they hover at her fingertips, harbingers of doubt. She remains constricted, vital functioning intermittent as it braces against the delicious confliction.

She's been here before. Or someplace like it.

_This is home, Ysi. This is where you belong. Come back to me._

Come back to me… Just come back. I love you. Bo.

The air is dragged into her lungs with a force matching the expulsion of the twin leeches, and as she expands into her own skin again, they are absorbed into the ether along with any tie – material or other – they had on her. It all comes rushing back in dizzying exhilaration, pushing into every pore and port of her body until she's gripping satin with blanched knuckles, tucked and clenched in pursuit of containment, lips pursed and bitten tight against the urge to scream release. She's got to ride this out. Fit all of her back inside.

She can feel her eyes changing. She's never had that awareness before and the alluded control seems at odds with what she's trying to achieve. If she's to reject this, it has to be all of it. A miniscule tainting could exclude something else, some important part she needs if she's to get it all back. And she has to get back. The two-way mirror has shattered and she sees straight through all the doubt and confusion she'd projected onto herself. She sees him.

_My beautiful girl._

His face is lit up like a first time father cradling his newborn as he steps through a floating puddle of grey at the foot of the four poster bed. He lifts the cane in his right hand and pushes it against the space through which he'd appeared, eliciting an exaggerated creaking and clicking sound as the doorway disappears. He's monstrously handsome, like a composite of the world's finest features; he should be ultimately stunning but there's something not quite right. His parts don't fit properly. Nothing about him belongs. But she knows exactly who he is.

'Ysi.' He exhales the name in unabashed elation, his smile widening as he steps around the bottom of the bed and perches near her feet.

The action assumes familiarity, a developed comfort that is paradoxical in effect. She pulls her bare legs away from him, hugging her knees to her chest and smoothing the relatively demure – for her anyway – nightgown down to her ankles. He doesn't react, not even his eyes - which haven't left her face since he entered – show any acknowledgement of her movement. With growing discomfort, she attempts to make some sense of her surroundings. She's woken up in strange places, with strangers, more times than she can remember. She's borrowed clothes, lost clothes, called Kenzi to meet her with clothes, at all hours. She's dominated, relinquished control, loved and lusted along the full length of the spectrum, forgotten and remembered in excruciating detail. But she has never felt as violated and vulnerable as she does right now. And that pisses her off.

'As father-daughter reunions go, I'd say this was a tad inappropriate. Not to mention totally OTT. You couldn't have just called? Tweeted? Put 30 years' worth of cards, presents and pocket money in the post?' She swings her legs around and hops off the high mattress on the opposite side to him, scouring the room quickly for her things, then on second glance, anything that could help her.

The elaborate oversized bed is central in an almost otherwise empty room, and as he follows her in rising from it, it disappears. He continues to smile at her in a 'patient father humouring his child' manner, and she wants to punch him in his smug parental-knowing face. He has no right to it, to any of it.

'Ysabeau we have much to catch up on, but know this. I have been with you your whole life. This may be a physical reunion, but I have always known you, I have always been able to feel you, to feel what you felt.'

'And inappropriate nose-dives right into creepy.' She starts to circle slowly, maintaining the distance and praying to all the Fae deities she knows nothing about that he's distracted enough not to notice. 'You know, you and mom really should have taken some parenting classes.'

He laughs, shaking his head and removing his gaze from her for the briefest of moments. She takes the opportunity to run towards the only other object in the room – a wooden chest against the wall to her right – but as she reaches out a hand to lift the lid, it vanishes. She spins back to face him, fully expecting him to have chased her down, but he remains almost statuesque, in the same place, his laughter receding to a knowing smirk.

'Seriously, cheating? Aren't you supposed to let the kid win, Pops? Build up their confidence, help them grow…insert other good, wholesome traits here.'

'You think this is a game?'

'No, I think you snatched me away to Wonderland, dressed me up like a…I don't even know what kind of doll, and tried to get me to take treats from strangers. What was that? Your version of the birds and the bees? This isn't a game; it's an exercise in bad parenting, a catch-up crash course in traumatising your child! What do you even want from me?'

'I want to give you what every father desires for their child, what I am fortunate enough to be able to give. I want to give you the world, Ysabeau. Your world.' He takes one step towards her, his cane resonating like metal on marble as it's brought down on the thick carpet.

Bo takes a matching step back, momentarily preoccupied by the realisation that her bare feet cannot feel the softness her eyes see her stood upon. Her soles are on hardwood floors; she can trace the grooves and gaps with her toes.

'Ysi, you were meant for so much. Your power has been bridled in an attempt to hide you from me but I can give it all back to you now.'

'It's Bo, and I'll settle for my clothes and the bus fare home.' She steps back even further until her hands are touching the wall behind her, pushing into something that definitely isn't standard building material. 'Maybe a pony. I always wanted a pony.' She continues her exploration, digging her fingers into the pliable space, trying to figure out what it is and if she can break through it. 'Actually that's a lie. I never wanted a pony, it's just something little girls are supposed to want isn't it? A pony and a prince? Can't say I ever thought much about either. A pool would have been nice, maybe a bike with – '

'You can walk out whenever you want. Just turn around and go through it.'

'What?' Suddenly her hands are chilled, goosebumps racing across her skin towards exposed shoulders. She's sure she can feel a breeze where the wall should be but can't chance turning away to look. 'What is this place? Why am I here?'

'It's complicated.' He waves his cane in a semi-circle, mid-air, leaving a visible but temporary ripple in its wake. 'This is a collaboration, a compromised version of something we both envisioned. It's the first thing we made together if you like.' His pride is obtrusively obvious and equally frustrating.

'This isn't arts and crafts! I didn't stick shells and pasta on shiny paper for you, so stop looking at me like I just handed you a daddy of the year card. I didn't do this, I don't want this! You yanked me out of my life at a time when I really need to be in it and - '

'That's not strictly true. I wouldn't have been able to bring you if you weren't ready to come, and you would not have stayed this long if you didn't have some hand it creating it.'

'What do you mean?' She's still working on the wall, driven by the increasing cold from the other side.

'We're in a pocket world, a - '

'A pocket world?'

'Patience child.' His smile is bordering on mocking and she glares back, fists clenched in the hole behind her. 'I can see your mother in you; she never was one for listening before leaping.'

'Oh daddy please stop, don't make me have to choose between you and mommy,' Bo pleads sarcastically, rolling her eyes before pinning them back to his face. 'Get on with it.'

'Pocket worlds exist in gaps in the universe.' He's still smiling, unfazed. 'They cannot be seen or utilised by many but can be manipulated and occupied by a few, under the right circumstances.'

'I think people would notice gaps in the universe, especially gaps big enough to house the fucked-up fantasy reunions of deadbeat dads.'

'Are you going to drop the damaged child riff any time soon?' The look of mild amusement remains.

'With all the years of toddler tantrums, teenage 'tude and literally killer pubescent angst I have to make up for? Not likely. Are you going to stop lying and start making sense any time soon?'

'Nothing truly touches anything else.' He raises the cane up, arching it through the air to slap into his empty, outstretched palm, again leaving a dissipating trail along the path it had taken. 'Matter cannot connect with other matter; it can simply share and repel energy. There is a gap between my cane and my hand, between metal and skin. The disturbance you see in the air is the displacement of electrons it caused moving through the atmosphere. The ability to see and affect is different here; the laws of physics themselves are different, in many ways heightened, in some, relaxed. That is why, once you have entered the pocket, you can see it.'

'But from the outside it's like the gap between say, my fist and your face if I were to hit you right now?' Bo had failed science but that wasn't her only reason for putting it in terms she understood. 'Care to test the theory?'

'You get the violence from your mother's side too.'

'Mind games more your thing? What a magical match you two must have been. Can we get on with the lesson, teach? The bell's about to go and I plan to skip next period…What? What's with the constant smiling? Are you the freaking Fae Mad Hatter or something?'

'I believe you're mixing up your Wonderland characters, but excellent continuation of theme, darling. In fact, seeing as it's working so well for you, I'll use it myself.' The tip of his cane falls solidly back on the ground and he crosses one leg in front of the other to rest a little harder on it. 'Alice entered Wonderland through the rabbit hole, a portal or gap in her world, which she would have been unable to access without collaboration with the rabbit himself. A specific set of circumstances and extensive chain of events enabled it to happen.'

Bo's heard enough; he likes the sound of his own voice too much and she needs to get back to the impending doom she was dragged away from. Her attention is divided between looking as though she's still listening and furiously working on the wall, but she knows enough to keep him talking.

'There was a hole in the floor – a visible hole might I add - and she fell through it. Hardly the same thing as being adult-napped by your father.'

'The 'rabbit hole' is metaphorical; in a sense, Alice fell through the world's fabric. And it wasn't visible, at least not literally, not to anyone but her and the rabbit. As with us, she only knew it was there after she'd come through. And it had to be that particular time, that place. I've been waiting for this since you were taken from me, knowing it would be here but waiting for you to decide when, and now finally, you and I, my dear Ysi, are reunited and we will be restored to all that we should be.'

'Wait a second, I didn't decide anything, I didn't choose this.'

'But you did!' He takes three urgent, urging steps forward and she has no further retreat. 'Somewhere, something in you chose to leave, probably needed to. Consciously or subconsciously your collective being knew it was time for you to come to me. I didn't shape all this myself, I couldn't. I'll prove it to you – what would you like to wear? That gown was your mother's, that was me, my doing, but you can change into anything you want just by willing it.'

Bo doesn't even have time to comprehend his words; as soon as her thoughts cross her clothes, they change and she's wearing the last outfit that…

'The last outfit that she took off you. And I already know – inappropriate.'

'…I think you bypassed it that time and went straight to creepy. How…?'

'Turn around.'

Bo – too shocked to continue arguing and feeling an instantaneous, unquestionable change behind her - does as she's told and finds herself standing in The Dal, exactly as she left it but with her father there too.

'How?'

'How what? How did I know what you were thinking? How did the clothes appear? How did we get back here? This is what I'm trying to make you understand my child. Those deities you were praying to moments ago? We're them. We are the Gods.'


	4. Chapter 4

She can still hear the growls and grinding metal but the surroundings have shifted around her and she's not sure which way she was going. Turning full circle to check for Bo – though she knows she's gone, maybe wasn't ever there to begin with – makes her sobering head spin. She drops to her knees, hands braced against the glittering ground, sure she's going to throw up, but nothing comes.

_That bastard and his parlour tricks._

He must have caught her last thought as she drove through him, carried it across and manipulated it into the time and space around her. He'd certainly honed his melding skills since the last time she was here.

She squeezes her eyes and lips tightly shut, suppressing the hopeless frustration she knows would only bring him such satisfaction. The mighty Valkyrie is nothing more than a desperate fish on dry land to him at the moment, and the big cat is just toying with his food. She needs to stop gasping and flailing around, get back to her own turf, her own terms. His influence is too strong here, his control too close to complete. But he will not control her, not anymore.

She forces herself up off the floor, a sound to rival Dyson's fiercest, angriest growl rising with her – within her – and erupting into the stifling heat. She's still disoriented, head pounding out the hard rhythm of her heart, eyes assaulted by the relentless glare of the high sun, limbs tingling in protest at the rapid upward motion. She grits her teeth against the nauseous urge to hit the floor again, grinding them together in determination. She instils doubt. She does not feel it.

The space around her continues to exhibit miniscule change; if she hadn't been here before, she probably wouldn't notice the slight shifts, would only feel the disequilibrium, the sense of malleability. But this time she's acutely aware. His attentions must be divided; a rare and fortunate feat. It will make this easier for her, buy her some time to get back, but instead of relief or rejoicing, she's panicked. There is only one thing that could distract him enough to stray from the path of vengeful punishment. He's found her.

'Bo.' The single syllable is high and strained; a dry gasp that sounds foreign coming from her mouth.

For a few long seconds, she's so overwhelmed by her own fear and fury that she does nothing – doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't think anything beyond the emotional trap she's in. Her body fights with her brain for its physiological needs but her mind knows that if she fully recognises her own part in all this, she'll be gone. It doesn't matter that she'd tried to make amends, to do the right - rather than the highest paid - thing for once, because it was too late too long ago. She's spent every life she's had making mistakes, too focused on ephemeral hedonism and taking for granted that if she fucked it up – again – this time, she'd have another shot. Too affected by her growing power each time to ever learn from those pasts, and too intent on immediate gratification to realise that she had it all so completely wrong. Until the unlikeliest of teachers came at her like a wrecking ball and smashed her shit apart. Taught her what real means, what it is, in so many senses. Ruined her in the best and worst ways possible. Showed her that pleasure is but a puzzle piece of true happiness; a tiny fraction of a bigger, infinitely more complicated and incomparably wonderful whole. She'd finally learned, finally found her way in, finally admitted – even if only to herself – that for the first time ever, she'd stumbled upon something she couldn't bear to leave behind.

And then she'd led him straight to her.

The remorse rips through every inch of her flesh like icicles, making her shiver against the heat and shaking her from the catatonic state. She rolls her head and shoulders, cracking her neck in an attempt to alleviate the rage-induced rigidity but achieving only minimal success. She's been in so many battles before, experienced the thrill of the fight in ways even the most seasoned warriors and soldiers couldn't imagine, but this one? Oh she is going to relish his defeat. His deliverance will be her greatest victory. Even if it means she has to go down with him.

With restored determination and the accompanying adrenaline spurring her on, Tamsin shields her eyes with one hand and quickly searches for her next move. The landscape is flattening out into a seemingly endless, arid desert with occasional pools of mid-air disturbance – like heat-waves circling against the natural flow – fading in and out in the distance. They're windows, Tamsin realises. Not established enough to be of any real use but she might at least be able to see through, to place herself. The question is, which one does she choose? The sounds she'd pursued can no longer be heard, she still feels so adrift and off-kilter, and she doesn't have time for wrong turns. She closes her eyes again, breathes in deeply, ignoring the burning discomfort in her nostrils and concentrating on tapping into her internal compass. The growls and scraping metal might not be Dyson, might not even be real, but it's as good a place as any to start. And if he has been dragged here with her, because of her – it's not like she gave him a choice in being a crash-test dummy – she can't risk leaving him behind.

When she reopens her eyes she has no idea if she's moved because every direction looks the same, but she feels different. Instead of being turned and twisted, outside and in, she feels a gentle but certain pull forward. She starts walking without further deliberation, easing out the stiff soreness left over from the non-accident and then building up speed. She reaches the first window before realising that her other injuries – and the dried blood confirms they'd existed – have actually, somehow been healed. Her mind runs quickly to Bo and how and where the hell is she right now, but these thoughts are quickly superseded by the image of Dyson wolfing in and out as he struggles to escape the wreckage of her overturned truck.

The sound returns on a delayed reel, like a poor quality pirate film that's all out of sync. She sees him drag his crushed and bloody right leg from under an unidentifiable part of the vehicle, but he's already slumped, exhausted and on the verge of passing out by the time his excruciated scream reaches her ears. Without thinking further than her friend's need for help, she tries to run at the window, realising a split-second too late that she knows exactly what will happen when she gets too close. Her own cries of pain drown out Dyson's weak groans as an invisible shield of scorching spindles throws her to the ground.

'Shit!'

She swallows down the rising sickness and allows herself a few seconds to recover before pushing to her feet and checking her exposed skin for injury. There's not a single new mark but it will sting like a bitch for hours, she's sure. When she looks back through the window, Dyson is unconscious but she can easily see he's breathing because he's torn off his shirt to use as a tourniquet on his leg. Pride tugs a small, relieved smile onto her lips.

'Hold on, D, you'll be okay. You've survived worse.' The words do little to convince or comfort but she clings onto them anyway, puts them on a loop in her head so she's able to look past him and figure out where she is in relation to where she needs to be.

The chances of finding an overlap – a way through – are slim at best without the crazy bastard creator's will, but she's now pretty confident she knows where to start.


	5. Chapter 5

They stop for coffee about a mile down the road, both women quietly contemplating what had happened in the car. The crossed wires had necessitated grudging expositions on both parts and now they're unsettled, equally hesitant to push forward too quickly and trying their best to find common ground about which to small-talk. The trouble is, everything they share seems to lead them in the same direction, and neither of them is ready to reach that destination just yet. Tucked into a booth in the furthermost corner, they're mostly shrouded in pregnant silence, so when - on the second refill - Lauren clocks that Aoife's beverages are self-made Irish, she grins, grateful for the conversational prompt.

'Did you spend much time there growing up?' She dances her mug into the centre of the table, raising an eyebrow until Aoife catches on and produces an antique silver flask engraved with vaguely familiar symbols and a language that Lauren doesn't recognise at all.

'Go easy, Doc, it's the good stuff.'

Lauren glances quickly around the diner at the other two – very uninterested – solo patrons and the clichéd old-looking young waitress, clockwatching her way through the graveyard shift, before adding a tipple of clear amber to her coffee. Though she's long since calmed down from her minor meltdown – tired even, hence the coffee – the mixture of caffeine and alcohol soothes her, and she closes her eyes against the assault of unnatural lighting to savour a moment she knows can't last. She finds herself savouring the taste more, humming her lips together to prolong its presence on her tongue.

'You weren't lying.' She raises her mug in cheers and Aoife shakes her head slightly, giving in to a reluctant smile.

'I don't remember Ireland much; don't remember much at all from my childhood really. It was a long time ago. Another life.' Her face echoes the brief darkening of the car, as though she has fleetingly gone somewhere, transformed, but she shudders – almost imperceptibly – back into herself, raising her own mug to meet Lauren's before drinking it dry. 'I know how to pick a whiskey though.'

'You've never returned?'

'Why would I?' Her eyes are downcast, rooted into the empty mug she clasps between both hands as though she's reading the most beguiling tealeaves. 'Life's about moving forward, not back.'

'But isn't that what we're doing? What you're asking me to do?'

Aoife sighs, sharing the remainder of the flask between their two mugs - enough to ensure that neither of them is legally fit to drive, Lauren acknowledges and dismisses – before bringing her gaze to latch intensely onto the blonde's.

'You, my dear, are once again the exception.' She tips her mug in toast to Lauren, inhaling heavily through her nose as though steeling herself for an inevitability she'd expected. 'Let's not do this here, okay? For one thing, this lighting could make a well-fed Serket look like a haggard old whore, and secondly…' She downs the whiskey and slams the mug onto the tabletop like a shot glass, unconcerned about drawing attention. 'I've got way more memory lane to trip down and we're out of the truth juice pain serum.'

'We're also over the limit; your measures are very generous.'

'So I've been told.' Aoife winks and Lauren smiles reflexively before realising how entirely inappropriate it is.

'I didn't…I mean,' she stutters.

'Oh calm yourself down, Suzie Cuteness.' Aoife rolls her eyes in affectionate mocking, one fingertip skating around the rim of her empty mug. 'I'm starting to see why my Bo chose you; that slightly oblivious sexiness thing is like Succubus catnip.'

'What?' Lauren is too lost in her inebriated – but still wholly unexpected - lack of unease to follow.

'Honey, you're hot but my gosh, you don't know it.' Aoife doesn't miss a beat; she thumbs towards the blinking light of a convenience store across the darkened car park – a masculine gesture completely at odds with the figure-hugging Gucci get-up she's wearing. 'I say we restock. I highly doubt they'll carry anything of standard but at this point anything alcoholic and older than Bieber's facial fluff will have to do. Then we can check in for the night next door.'

Lauren glances over Aoife's shoulder at the cheap chain motel attached to the diner and realises she'd known they'd be staying as soon as they pulled in. That's why her runaway bag occupies the seat next to her.

'I – '

'Before your pristine panties start bunching up again, I just mean to talk in private – and better lighting – and sleep in separate beds.' She emphasises the 'sleep', once again shaking her head in playful incredulity.

Lauren nods once in capitulation, one side of her mouth lifting into a lopsided smile. A chivalrous Succubus – this Succubus, no less – who'd have thought it?

'Actually, I was going to say, I'm starving.' She flashes a full grin, pulling the menu from its rack behind the condiments and nonchalantly perusing the illustrated list. 'How do you feel about pizza?'

'A sleepover with beer, pizza and talking about love – it's just like the time that…' Aoife signals the waitress so they can order to take out, but her attentions remain fixed on Lauren. '…never happened because beer, fast food and love all suck.'

Forty minutes, two beers and three slices of - ravenously eaten - Veggie Feast later, and a booze-brave Lauren is relishing reminding Aoife of her famous last words.

'How to turn a thousand year old, sophisticated seductress into a flushed, impressionable student, ladies and gentlemen. How does it feel to have a lowly human educating you on the finer things in life?'

'Okay, okay, clearly I've had a very sheltered and deprived existence!'

Lauren laughs without restraint, reaching across the carpet for another slice.

'Your enthusiastic sound effects tell another story.'

'I'm a Succubus; the throaty moan is my go-to in any pleasurable situation. Plus, you got me drunk and lowered my inhibitions.'

'You have those?' Lauren deadpans.

Aoife narrows her eyes – Bo's eyes when Lauren looks just a second too long – and picks up a discarded bottle cap to throw at Lauren's chest. They're in a too-small twin room; they'd actually got keys to two, a double and this one, which Aoife had procured for free, using her – Lauren has to admit, and shamelessly kind of wants to study – awe-inspiring skills. The smarmy guy on the motel reception – Clint he'd said his name was but Lauren had her doubts – hadn't known what hit him. A single touch had him literally panting and on his knees, palm-paws raised in a doggy-style begging pose, promising Aoife the world along with the rooms she'd requested.

Lauren pauses briefly as an image of 'Clint' still in that position - salivating in the diminishing mist of Aoife's perfume – pops into her head. Her mind begins to wander, albeit in a slightly off-balance manner, to thoughts of trace patterns, correlations and comparative analysis, but of course, this only leads her to one place. One person.

'Hey, Doc McThinkstoomuch, where'd you go?'

Lauren tunes back in as Aoife knocks their knees together in the small space they're occupying – along with a second dwindling six pack of mediocre beer, a bottle of overpriced Tequila, and the pizza box – on the threadbare carpet between the single beds. She leans her head back onto the overhanging blankets, reality suddenly closing in again, and Aoife – recognising that the time for avoidance is up – sighs, tossing a third crust into the open box.

'For the record, I may have been wrong about the pizza and beer but the talking about love part is still gonna blow.'


	6. Chapter 6

'We are the Gods.'

A solitary disbelieving syllable of a laugh pushes up from Bo's chest, and for a split second she could go either way. She feels herself open up to the route of utter surrender, to the possibility of just crumpling, right here, right now, and giving in. Or maybe even running again. Anything to take this all away; to return her to a semblance of simplicity so distant now, she's not entirely sure it ever existed. For a fleeting moment she'd risk it though; she allows herself to consider the lure of chance, imagines skipping the wrong way down that yellow brick road towards ignorance and denial. But almost instantly that path is blocked. A glittering beacon of scarlet and silver grounds her, anchors her to the world – her world – again. She moves gingerly forward to bend and pick it up off the hardwood flooring of The Dal. The familiar button has a chip in the side and Bo concentrates on trying to remember if it was pre-existing rather than figuring out if the viscous fluid now colouring her fingertips is blood. Everyone she loves is okay, simply because they have to be. She just needs to find them.

'I don't know where your human is, but that's not important right now – '

Bo is torn from her reverie and angrily turns on him, instinctively pulling her knife from the strap she'd willed onto her thigh. 'Don't you dare! She – they are the only things that matter right now, so if you're going to continue this little being in my head brain-fuck, at least listen to what my brain is actually telling you and stop making me repeat myself.'

His eyes flare in thrilled surprise, but not at her words; something startles and pleases him almost before she speaks. Bo looks warily over her shoulder for the source of her father's change in demeanour but The Dal remains empty except for the two of them.

'You are more than I ever envisioned.'

'And here I thought Gods were supposed to be all-seeing.'

'You are reluctant to believe because it's been ingrained in you to repress what you are. Your entire life has been built on lies; your true place denied as mine was before you. And some part of you knows it, feels it clawing for recognition when you wake abruptly with the lingering reach of a dream already gone embracing you so tightly you can hardly breathe. Or in those lost moments, the ones you rightly convince yourself are down to love and fear but which you refuse to admit to enjoying, to controlling. You pretend to be this lost girl but you know exactly who you are - '

'Fuck you.' Bo's words come out in a vicious growl that reverberates from the depths of her stomach and across the walls around them. She doesn't like how it feels; everything pushing too close to the surface, her blood crawling hotly against the underside of her skin.

'Ysi, we must – '

'There is no we.' She moves slowly along the bar a few feet further away but keeping her eyes on him the whole time. 'Don't presume to know me or think you can dictate what I must or mustn't do. I'm not really one for rules; if you'd been around, been a parent, maybe you'd know that.'

For the first time his seemingly untouchable façade falters and Bo could swear his whole body shimmers into shade and back. He nods once, a grim resigned smile holding his lips closed.

'That's it? No smartass daddy knows best retort?'

He shimmers again – for sure this time – almost like an old movie fading out, and Bo realises that other than the deep, near edible chocolate brown of his eyes, his entire being – clothes and cane included – had become a greyscale chart when they'd entered The Dal. She feels a pang of…something other than frustration or fear but she doesn't have time to identify it before he speaks again.

'I only want what is rightfully ours, what was meant to be. We have much to make up for. I have much to make up for.'

'Well you can start by helping me find my friends.'

'I'm sorry Ysi, I can't do that.'

'Well that's the deal-breaker, Pops. You want me? I come as a package.'

'Ysi…'He steps towards her, both hands resting heavily on the head of his cane as though he's struggling to stand.

'You're no God; you're barely even a man.' Bo steps back, sheathing the blade and looking at him with a mixture of renewed resent and something approaching pity. 'I wish I could say it was nice to meet you…'

The truth of it is she's disappointed. She's spent years searching for her origins, years being teased with titbits of what they might be; days and nights of sleeping and waking hours fantasising and fretting over good and bad, light and dark, destiny and control, the amalgamation and meeting of past and present. She's relived real-life moments in her head, imagined how they'd have differed with the unstoppable force of a father she'd come to envision. And in the really honest moments, she's yearned for this figure who is so feared by so many, felt a connection, an affinity she didn't dare to speak off. But this man – despite his conceited tale - lives up to none of it.

What else is there to say? Without another word, she turns her back and walks away, down the stairs to Trick's living quarters to start searching for her real family. She doesn't see her father's final shimmer as he's taken back to his pocket of the world, nor does she hear his parting promise.

'You cannot deny who you are anymore. Soon you'll understand, my girl. Soon, they all will.'

* * *

Kenzi has been sat on the bar, doubled over laughing for at least forty seconds straight before Bo loses patience. Trying to interrupt with words isn't working so she snatches the open bottle of Tequila from her distracted hands. That gets her attention. Predictably.

'Hey! You know the rules about baby's booze.'

'Some things are more important than the highly disturbing tales of your infancy right now, Kenz – namely, the equally disturbing tales of mine, and the fact that I've spent almost an hour calling everyone we know and you're the only one who picked up. I need you to focus; there's so much going on and I'm – '

'A freaking sex-God!' Kenzi slaps a hand down on the bar, once again dissolving into unbridled laughter.

'Kenzi!'

'I'm sorry, Bobo,' she manages, straightening up her body a little but having far less success with her face. 'Maybe it's being declared a terrorist enemy of the Fae, or stealing The Morrigan's sweet, sweet Porsche and pounding that bitch with the windows down until I lost feeling in every single part of my body, or Hale kissing me, or the half bottle of Trick's T that I've slammed in the last ten minutes, but that! THAT is priceless! You're an actual - all jokes aside except not really because this shit kinda tells itself – bona fide sex God! You couldn't make this stuff up!'

'Except that you could! I don't know if you've noticed but the people in my life have a tendency towards bullshit when it comes to me and...well, my life. And he's clearly insane. If he is a God, where the hell has his omniscient, omnipresent, omni-whatever else self been all these years?'

Kenzi visibly sobers, the laughter receding until not even a weak smile remains. She hops down off the bar and steps closer to her friend, rubbing one hand down Bo's bare arm.

'Oh Bobo, is that what this is about?'

'What? No. Maybe.' Bo shakes her head gently, looking down at her short nails trying to pick off the Tequila label. 'If he's so powerful, so "Godly", why didn't he find me before, when I really needed answers? And why didn't Aoife or Trick tell me the truth? I don't like this, Kenz; I'm so sick of everyone supposedly knowing more about me than me, and lying to me about it! There's just so much I don't understand and I thought finding my family would be the answer but sometimes I wish...' Bo can't quite bring herself to tempt fate by finishing that sentence. Her chosen family are far too precious.

'They fuck you up, your mum and dad...What? It's a poem. I know other poems than those of the great wordsmith Ludi. Plus that shit is a universal truth.'

Bo sighs and takes a long swig from the dwindling Tequila before Kenzi playfully snatches the bottle back and does the same.

'I don't just mean him. Don't get me wrong, he makes Aoife seem like the sane parent, and as father-daughter dances go, I'd rather have sat this one out, but he's just the rotten cherry on a melting shit-sauce sundae that's spilling over the sides of the bowl too fast for me to even salvage a lick.'

'Is it wrong that I'm suddenly craving Piles O Pecans with hot fudge?'

'Everything about this is wrong, Kenz, but what do I fix first?'

'Me please.'

They spin towards the empty space where the black smoke had first taken Bo and see Tamsin literally fade into vision like a reverse erase on an Etch-a-Sketch board.

'Holy Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility,' Kenzi whispers, stunned still as Bo rushes to steady the stumbling blonde.

'Are you okay? Is he he –' is all the ailing Valkyrie can manage before she slumps unconscious into Bo's pre-empting arms.

'A little help, Kenz,' Bo nods towards the nearest bench and begins to angle Tamsin's upper bodyweight in that direction. '

'Ahhhahh!' Kenzi moves forward then back as though fronting in a dance battle; the hand clutching the treasured Tequila tensing indecisively until she concludes Bo is strong enough to hold on a few more seconds. She turns to place the bottle safely on the bar then hurries to the bench, dragging it a few inches to catch the lowered Valkyrie before resting her hands heavily on her knees, breathing exaggeratedly as she feigns innocence against Bo's stare.

'What? My free bar-tab doesn't extend to glassware and bones heal, bottles don't, so when you really think about it, philosophically speaking, it was the smart choice...y'know, for the greater good and all.'

'Thank you - I can't think of any famous philosophers right now so I'm just gonna go with - Oprah,' Bo mockingly admonishes before turning her attentions back to the stirring blonde. 'That did just happen how I saw it, right? She appeared from nowhere? Fell into being? Like from behind a hidden curtain or something?'

'Yup. I think I covered that with the whole cloak of invisibility thing. Is that what happened with you and Pops?'

'I don't know, I couldn't see me. I just wanted to be home and I was.'

'Can you try wanting a trillion dollars for a sec? What! Dude, stop looking at me like that, any normal person would.'

'I hate to break it to you, but we're not normal people...And I did try – not the money thing but I tried to...I don't know, will, I suppose, myself to Lauren.'

'Oh…Did you try Karen?'

Bo goes to slap Kenzi on the arm but the spry human is too quick, too skilled in the art of getting the hell out of the way.

'Not funny.'

'I wasn't joking. She's – '

'The Doc is not your priority right now.' Tamsin's hand grips Bo's wrist as she struggles to sit herself up. 'Where is he? Did he hurt you? Oh...shit...' She sways left then overcompensates and winds up pitching forwards and to the right, face-first into Bo's chest.

'Easy there, Blondey-Bear,' Kenzi intervenes, shuffling across the seat to shift Tamsin's head onto her shoulder. 'Our girl's a one woman woman nowadays...mostly. Does it count if they have more than one name?'

Bo glowers briefly at her friend. 'Neither of us is really in a position to judge here are we, Madam Alias? She must have had her reasons.'

'Don't we all, sister, don't we all.'

The Valkyrie growls into Kenzi's neck before determinedly righting herself, palms down either side of her thighs and fingers curled over the front of the bench for balance. She locks her eyes onto Bo's; their ice-blue calling out the Succubus, letting her know she means business, and all at once their focus is singular.

'Is he here?'

'He was.'

'Did he hurt you?'

'No.'

'Is he dead?'

'No.'

'Then he's not done trying.'

Kenzi watches their exchange with a silent, frightened thrill. The two of them are electric; still and steady but so finely tuned – so in tune – that it almost doesn't matter what they're saying because only they are meant to understand. But then, Kenzi has a habit of sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.

'What the whating what is going on? Where did you Faede in from? Who is "he" and how do you know he-him? When did you two become so...twoey?'

'We have to get out to the bridge on 45,' Tamsin continues without even acknowledging that Kenzi has spoken. 'Dyson's hurt but I couldn't get through, there wasn't an overlap.'

'An overlap?' Bo is ignoring Kenzi too.

'A tear. He controls almost everything in the space he creates – '

'The pockets.'

'Yes. He creates pockets and to an extent, he manipulates time and space to will within them, but in certain places or circumstances, another force – of physics or the physical – can cause a tear or an overlap; a way through. My guess is Trick or the power of sanctuary in this place created a – '

'No, I think it was Bo.'

Finally they both turn to the petite human who has retrieved the Tequila from the bar and is staring at her friend in earnest.

'Think about it - he took you into a world he controlled and you strolled right out; you are the force, Bobofett.'

'Not necessarily, I mean – '

'She's right.' The awe in Tamsin's voice echoes that reflected in her eyes as she gazes up at Bo in a way that warms her from the inside out. 'The only reason I'm alive is because he found you as he took me and you were all he could see. You are everything he wanted, everything he wanted you to be. Everything he said you would be.' A haunted, self-deprecating laugh fills the heavy space between them. 'I sacrificed you and you saved me. Can you still see that good in me now?'

'Bo what is she talking about?' Kenzi's Kenzi-sense is suddenly tingling, creeping up her spine and into her brain, calling for her to step up and put this bitch down. 'What did you do, bottle-blonde? What's your deal with Papa-pocket?'

'Papa what?'

'Bo's alt-dimension daddy – how do you know him? What did you do?'

Tamsin looks as though she's going to faint or fade again; her face is ashen, her eyes unfocused until they return to settle on Bo's, their usual cutting hue dulled but shimmering beneath a watery surface.

'Oh puhlease don't try the distressed damsel routine; you can't scam a scammer, sweetheart so just...' Kenzi falters when Bo reaches out a hand to cup Tamsin's colourless cheek.

'You didn't know,' Bo states softly. 'It's okay.'

'No.' Tamsin jerks violently away from Bo's palm, swatting her attempt to re-establish contact and pushing up and away from the bench. 'Stop doing that! Stop being so...so...' Her eyes are brimming with tears, her gesturing hands shaking in guilty frustration. 'You are not supposed to be; you weren't supposed to be real! You certainly weren't supposed to be his! God, what have I done?!' She spins away from yet another attempt to soothe her, salty liquid spilling uncontrollably, inconsolably down her cheeks. 'What have I done?!'

'I don't care,' Bo says calmly but loud enough to silence any potential challenge from either woman. 'We've all done things – shitty things, stupid things, selfish things – but it doesn't matter. I do not care. It's time we all snapped out of this self-involved bullshit and start behaving like actual people again. And I get that this is new territory to you and you're still trying to figure it all out, and I know that I pushed you to do that, but right now we don't have time for baby-steps; you need to decide if you're ready to put on your big girl panties and fight for our family, our real family. And if you're not, you need to get the hell out of my way. I cannot hold your hand and wipe your tears, but I can stand with you; if you step up, I will stand by you. No matter what. The decision is yours. But it has to be right now.'

Tamsin blinks once to clear her vision. Bo offers a single nod and that's all the time and encouragement she needs. She runs her sleeve roughly across her face then removes her jacket entirely to rid herself of any remnants of weakness.

'I'm yours.'

'Good.' Bo reaches into her pocket and tosses the keys to her Camaro into Tamsin's hands. 'Go get Dyson; do whatever it takes to make sure he's okay. Kenz, I need you to track down Trick and Hale; Vex too if you can, but stay here where you'll be safe.'

'What about you?' Tamsin's renewed strength wavers slightly. 'You can't go after him alone, Bo.'

'I'm not going after him at all. I'm – '

'Going after her.'


	7. Chapter 7

Tamsin doesn't leave as directed, though her concern for Dyson spreads sickly heat throughout her chest that almost overwhelms the sting of Bo prioritising her precious little Lauren yet again. Instead, she waits for Kenzi to head down to use Trick's phone, listening to her grousing the whole way about long distance calls and the wise old Blood King's insistence on itemised paper billing for reimbursements. For a few seconds her thoughts follow the seemingly unbreakable spirit of the young human – the modern day warrior of sorts – but her eyes remain fixed on the rallying Succubus and that vision soon reins in her wandering mind. Wanderer…this shit is too real to play nice; to let Bo play at being hero.

'Okay, you snapped me out of my pity party for one, now it's time for you to snap out of this selfish bullshit.'

Bo had been busying herself behind the bar, stocking up and strapping on the weapons Trick keeps hidden in a trunk amongst the barrels, but she slowly turns to look at the blonde, eyes drawn into angry slits.

'Excuse me?'

'You heard. Running off half-cocked after what **you** want almost got us all killed already. Your friends, your family as you keep calling them, need you. Dyson needs –'

'I went to Taft's compound to save Dyson. And I wasn't half-cocked, I was fully cocked thank you very much; as I recall, you were cocked with me.'

'I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about after, when you left us all to deal so you could run off after Dr Deception.'

Bo's eyes flash blue in warning, her fingers tightening around the blade she was in the process of sheathing. 'Don't talk about her like that.'

'About who? Do you even know who she is?' Tamsin runs a cool palm across the back of her hot neck, a sigh quickly turning into a frustrated growl. 'She's not the point! As much as I'd kind of like her to be, she's not the problem here, you are. You're so wrapped up in finding yourself, in finding **your **truths, that you're putting everyone else at risk by ignoring theirs. Stop and think, Bo. For once in your life just stop and think beyond your raging and ravenous libido! Dyson is probably dying, but that's not the only reason he should be your first call.'

Bo's every pore still hisses with fury, her grip clenched around the knife handle, vibrating and barely able to restrain it. Her brow is knitted both in concentration and constraint as she wills herself not to let go, not to give in to the violence she feels brewing inside. She's not that person. Lauren – her Lauren, the Lauren that is so much more than sex and sustenance to her, the Lauren that she is so sure she knows – taught her that. She taught her a lot of things. When Bo bothered to listen.

_Dyson is dying_. Tamsin's words echo in Lauren's voice inside her head. She glares at the Valkyrie, confused and so sure it's her doing, but Tamsin's face is unchanged except for the unfamiliar pleading in her ice-blue eyes; a look so out of place that it slams into Bo like a wrecking ball, shattering the bottleneck of rage and allowing her to see beyond it. _Dyson is dying_. Tamsin is right. He's dying but he's not yet dead because Lauren saved him - voluntarily this time - and that means Dyson was the last person to see her.

Tamsin tosses the car keys onto the bar without another word and Bo snatches them up, nodding her understanding and ditching the smaller blade in favour of an old faithful.

'Kenz,' she yells over her shoulder, already heading for the door. 'Stay out of sight until the guys get here. Geraldine's coming with me.'

* * *

For a few miles pounding the gas pedal and taking corners at speed is enough; Bo is able to contain herself and her racing thoughts - the burning questions and blistering accusations - because she has something more immediate to focus on: not killing them or anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. But as they head out of the city, hitting the quieter straight run of back roads, there's no longer enough external distraction and she's acutely aware of her own internal turmoil. Her father, her mother, her lover – she needs answers and is certain that Tamsin possesses at least some of them.

'Talk.'

Tamsin hears her but continues to stare out of the window at the blur of passing greenery, contemplating the various, endless cycles of life. Time passes, worlds change, but life, in one form or another, always remains. It retains and maintains. Without it, the rest would be redundant. There should be peace in that; she should feel…something, knowing that her lives have been a part of something bigger, have held meaning even when they were squandered. But she realises now that she's experienced nothing, belonged nowhere; her sole purpose has always been more akin to this flat, grey road than to the life flourishing and dying around it; she is just a transport medium, an undecorated passage, a darkened tunnel. Life travels on her, not with her or within her. In all her previous cycles, she was little more than an empty vessel, and she's still not sure what kind of life can grow in the dark. She's not sure she wants to know.

'Tamsin.'

But Bo is so determined to drag her – kicking and screaming if she has to – from that melancholy thinking and into the sunlight, into any kind of light. And despite the months she's spent resisting, pretending not to want it, not to care about anything beyond the mark, the job, she's known for a while that what it really comes down to is she simply didn't dare to dream an alternative before. She didn't dream at all; she didn't know she could. And now it might just be too late.

'You were awful chatty not twenty minutes ago, Tamsin, don't play coy with me now. Start explaining.'

'I thought it didn't matter. Back at The Dal, you said you didn't care.'

'Because we needed to move, and the only thing stronger and more certain than my love for the humans in my life is their loyalty to me.' Bo pauses to let her statement sink in clearly, side-eyeing Tamsin for signs of challenge or belittling, continuing when the Valkyrie just looks down at her own lap. 'Kenzi was about five seconds from giving you and Geraldine here a proper introduction.'

'What do you want me to say?'

'I want the truth. All of it. What you know – about me, about my father - from the beginning.'

A bubble of uneasy laughter chases Tamsin's held breath from her mouth; she turns her head to find Bo's face sullen and unyielding, and instinctively hides herself in the comfort of a bravado she's spent thousands of years perfecting.

'Oh honey, the drive aint that long and I aint deluded enough to believe I have the whole truth, if such a thing even exists.'

'Then just give me what you got and talk fast.'

'You couldn't handle – '

Bo's hand on her bare forearm stops her feeble performance; the way she's both delicate and firm, building and breaking her, asking politely and giving her no other choice. Bo, in all her confliction and contradiction - the brown and the blue, the seductress and her virtue – is the only certainty, the only centre she's ever had. Tamsin can feel how hard she's trying just to hold on to herself, to not get lost in a life that's had it's mouth open to swallow her whole from the day she was born, and she finds herself almost choking on self-hatred for any part she might have played. For the part she knows she played. And so she clears her throat, faces forward and goes back to the start.

'Once upon a time there was peace on Earth. This was pre-humans, but before you get all defensive, they're not to blame for what came, not entirely anyway. It was a time of true balance; a time when every living thing had and knew and accepted it's place in the world, and so a consensus of function held existence together. Sounds like absolute bullshit and boring as hell but so the story goes.' She winces at the residual coarseness before realising that Bo hasn't reacted at all; that she has known this persona for a whole year now and not turned her away; that snark with a smile was kind of a prerequisite for her crowd. 'Anyway, the world was populated by Fae, a genus of creature with a diverse and varied multitude of species, each with their own offerings to this apparent Utopia. Each –'

'I know what the Fae are, Tamsin. I asked for my history, not ancient history.'

She takes further comfort in the normalcy of Bo's frustrated tone. She's received the verbal eye-roll from her many times before and its familiarity fuels the hope that what Bo said back at The Dal is true; that despite anything Tamsin has to tell, she will still be standing with her when this is over.

'Eyes on the road please, I've already been in one crash today, I don't fancy my odds of surviving another.'

'Just get to the goods.' Bo looks to the distance, squeezing the fingers of both hands around the wheel until her knuckles blanch.

'Patience really isn't a Succubus virtue is it?'

'We also have a very limited bullshit tolerance.'

'Fine, just listen. Each Kingdom of Fae had a ruler, which totally contradicts the whole balance and equality thing but as little Fae kiddlets, you buy into the Faerytale without question. The Fae royalty were revered as links to the Gods, who in turn were worshipped for their provision of such an idyllic life and land. The only thing the Fae had to fear – or so they were taught to believe – was deviation. Things were good as long as consistency reigned and so traditions were sacrosanct, the way of living and the established systems were maintained simply because A plus B always equalled C, and no one really wanted to take a chance on D or E. That's not strictly how we were told it – there wasn't really an alphabet back then, no language of letters – but I digress. To some extent the status quo theory of living was real; so long as the Gods were worshipped, they provided – weather, land, food; the necessities for living - and so long as the monarchs were revered, they allowed their Kingdoms access to these provisions. So the Fae were thankful to the Gods who provided for the monarchs who provided for the Fae et cetera et cetera. This went on for thousands of years; long before the human feudal system or any of the other fucked up regimes that species has inflicted upon themselves, and at times, us. The Fae saw the rise and decline of a number of planetary eras and inhabitants, and though our numbers at times perished, we always had enough variation to survive and evolve as a genus. And those good old Gods were given credit for our continued existence every single time.'

'Speaking of Gods, oh **my** God, you're more long-winded than Kenzi on a vodka-induced soliloquy to her entire collection of shoes! Why is this important?'

'Actually, it's the shoe-shipper's kind that are important. Because when the humans came, everything changed.'


End file.
